


Breaking Point

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of Ella, Anders is overcome with guilt and makes the hardest decision of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theangrywarlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/gifts).



> Inspired by a kink meme prompt that was in turn inspired by the conversation Anders and Fenris have about suicide. Unfortunately this does not fit the bill entirely. (Prompt called for eventual Fenris/Anders) Encouraged, once again, by my lovely girlfriend to put this to paper.

Four days.

It had been four days since he'd lost control.

The funeral was soon. But he couldn't go. How could he? How could he look at the faces of that girl's mother and father? See their pain, the pain that he caused? He wanted to, Maker how he wished he could take it back. How do you apologize for that? For taking the life of an innocent? She begged him, _begged_ him for mercy, and he couldn't control his anger, his rage. Justice didn't see an innocent girl. He saw an enemy. Someone who named him demon. And he'd killed her, striking her down as easily as he'd done to her templar tormentors. How?

How had it gone so wrong?

He turned over on the thin bedroll, not even bothering with his cot tonight. The lanterns were extinguished these past four days, the doors locked and a drawbar pulled down to prevent them from being kicked in. He heard the shouts of his friends – friends? Hawke. Varric. Isabela. Even Merrill had knocked politely and called out. He ignored them all. Hawke spoke to him after it had happened. Not yelled precisely, but spoken harshly. Told him he was being foolish, overreacting. Anders let it happen. And when they'd left, he felt no better for it.

He continued to throw out his things.

Now the clinic was bare except for a small box of healing supplies he was planning to give to Lirene. Let someone else heal the sick. Let someone who wasn't liable to turn on a patient take care of the refugees. For all the good he'd done over the years, it all unraveled with one slip, one mistake. He clenched a fist against his chest, feeling the horrible, hollow ache there. A flash of irritation he knew wasn't his own.

"I can't," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was speaking more to himself or to Justice. The spirit was relentless, trying to push him through his sloth, his grief. "I killed a girl. _We_ killed a girl, Justice. She was innocent. She was young. She had a family."

Confusion. Justice didn't understand. Spirits didn't know of family or time or anything but action. Even Kristoff's memories weren't enough to remind him of what the human body was capable or incapable of. Anders had allowed it for years, allowed Justice to take him over, to push him beyond his limits. He could go without food or sleep, he could go without sex, without touch. A year in solitary confinement taught him his own limitations. He craved it, but pushed it away, denied himself so he could shoulder his cause fully. He would give his life, anything, for it. But now?

It was tainted. Tainted with the death of a young girl. He'd done that. How could he now be a voice for the plight of the Circle mage when he'd done the very thing that caused people to fear mages? He'd argued with Merrill, stating that Justice wasn't a demon, that he was a spirit. He embodied a good virtue, so it wasn't the same as her deal for blood magic. Was he wrong? Or was it his anger that warped his friend, perverting Justice into something twisted and deplorable?

A stab of pain, indignation, and anger.

"It's not your fault," he assured Justice. "I know you're not a demon. And I didn't mean to imply that you would become one, but… but this…"

He rolled to his back, staring up at the ceiling, hand massaging his chest. He'd left his coat off, wearing just tunic and trousers now, the same he'd had for four days. He couldn't remember when last he'd eaten, but he wasn't hungry. The pains had faded into a hollow, gnawing ache, and his limbs trembled when he lifted them. Sloth. It made men forget their pride and their purpose. But what pride did he have now? How could he hold his head up after that? How could he confidently represent mage freedom now?

Someone else would have to do it. They shouldn't have to bear the brunt of his transgressions. He wouldn't allow them to shoulder his burden.

With concentrated effort, he sat up, looked around. There was no quill or ink or parchment. He'd tossed them all with the papers that contained his manifesto into the Waking Sea. What good would they do him anyway? What sense did those words make coming from someone like him? If there was a revolution to be had, he wouldn't be part of it. He got to knees, shaking, and nearly fell over when a jolt of pain racked his body.

"Justice," he hissed, closing his eyes.

He wished he could explain it to him, he wished he could talk to the spirit, apologize. But even then, Justice wouldn't understand. Spirits didn't die, they didn't end, they simply went back from whence they came. Or continued on to find another host. He hoped Justice would find someone. He hoped Justice would continue the cause.

He couldn't stand, so he simply knelt, raising his arms. Two fireballs formed in his palms, and he tried to force them inward. A burning burst of agony bubbled up under his skin and he was crying out in pain. He'd seen Saarebaas do it. He could do it as well. His heart skipped a literal beat and the flames fizzled before they could do much more damage. There was a moment of ten seconds where he lost consciousness. Justice.

"Please," he whispered, tears forming in his eyes. "Please let me die."

But the spirit wouldn't. Magic was intrinsic to him. He could force Anders to stop if he wanted. And Anders couldn't make him understand. With an anguished cry he fell forward, clutching his head, knees pressed against his chest.

"Why?"

A shiver wracked his body violently, muscles tightening as if he was seizing. He gasped for breath and tried to understand.

"If you won't let me use magic…"

He could throw himself from the window, the cliffs below jagged and unforgiving. But death that way was not certain. He'd survived falls from the Circle tower before. His magic was intrinsic to his continued survival. He'd never thought being a spirit healer would be a curse wrapped in a blessing.

His eyes fell upon the box of supplies and he crawled toward it, pulling out a silverite scalpel. It was a gift, ironically. Given to him to perform surgeries or to better remove arrowheads and shrapnel. He rolled up his sleeves with shaking fingers. If Justice wouldn't let him use magic, he would have to find another way.

A pounding on the clinic door. He ignored it. Holding the scalpel precariously in his right hand, he made a fist with his left, then relaxed. The blade was sharpened already; it would slice through the vein easily enough. Heart pounding, he took a shaking breath and pressed the tip to the inside of his pale wrist. The first biting sting caused him to hiss and he pulled back, surprised. Irritation stirred in his breast.

"This is how it has to be," he told Justice.

A firmer pounding now. "Mage."

Fenris. Why would Fenris be at his door? Hawke must've sent him. There was no other explanation. And that Hawke sent someone like Fenris to him… The elf hated him. Hated mages. Was he to be berated again for his lack of control? Did he really need to be told that he needed to learn his limitations? He knew of them intimately, had reached them. He was done. Now he just needed to end it.

The scalpel pressed into the skin, slicing through his flesh and he hissed, wincing at the stinging pain. As he drew it toward his elbow, he watched the scarlet line welling, engorging, then spilling over and separating into thin rivulets. He stopped after four inches and watched, eyes wide as the blood slid down his arm, pooling in the crook of his elbow, pulsing with each beat of his heart. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseous and knew he'd struck true. The vein was open, and now he only needed to wait.

Feeling weak, he leaned back against the wall, dropping his arm, no longer able to keep it up. The scalpel fell from his fingertips, crimson dotting the dirty, tan stone of the clinic floor. He closed his eyes and waited for death.

-

Fenris swore as he heard the deep voice of what he'd come to know as the true abomination. The spirit that shared the mage's soul. He had no desire to meet it face to face, not after seeing it rip apart fully-plated templars just days ago. But before he could go, he heard not a cry of rage or anger, but a plea of help.

"Elf! I know you're there!"

He swore again, clenching his gauntleted fists and turned back. The doors were locked. He picked them with ease, but they budged less than inch. Something was blocking them.

"Please!"

A desperate cry. Fenris heard the girl's voice, the one that the mage had killed. She'd cried out like that, begging, and the abomination put her down like she was nothing better than a rabid dog. Why should he help? If the mage was under attack, what was it to him?

_Hawke would see you pay._

It was the only thing that truly kept him from alerting the templars at first to the clinic. Hawke's… friendship or companionship or whatever it was. Over the years, the mage had become less insufferable but still a constant source of irritation. And when Sebastian suggested turning him in? Fenris had balked at the idea. Not out of loyalty for the mage, but for Hawke. He wasn't friends with the mage, would never be friends. But had it been another of Hawke's companions, would he be hesitating now if they were in need?

No.

That was the thought that propelled him forward, feeling the pull of his lyrium brands as he phased through the wooden door. He stopped at the sight across the clinic, mouth open in shock. Blue light did in fact splinter the mage's skin, eyes pupil-less and glowing with the fire of the sun. He was bent over, clutching his arm which was bleeding. Too much to be a simple cut, his hand covered as he tried to stem the flow.

"Elf!" Justice called again, his voice deep but holding no anger, only desperation. "We are dying…"

Fenris didn't stop to think why Anders would do this, he simply reacted. He'd seen other slaves in this position, had even allowed it to happen to one girl. He sprinted the short distance, immediately removing his gauntlets and casting around for something to bandage the wound. Finding nothing, he tore the mage's blood-stained tunic from his chest and folded it.

"Move your hand," he ordered.

The blue eyes flickered, and honey-hued amber returned. "Fenris, please… no."

Fenris smacked his hand away, scowling. Rage, confusion, and concern bubbled up inside and he forced them away. There was no time to think, only act. He pressed the folded linen to the wound, holding it tightly while he looked around again for something – anything – to stop the bleeding. The mage lifted his other hand weakly, touching Fenris's arm before it slid off.

"No."

"Silence!"

He needed to think. There was a box. He dragged it over, shifting the contents. Anders slid from the wall, falling over onto his side. Fenris growled, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulled him upright. He pressed the tunic which was fast becoming drenched in blood harder against his wrist and forced it up, above Anders' heart. As he pulled several elfroot potions and bandages from the box, he saw something else that would help – a sewing kit.

"Hold your arm up," he ordered.

He let go of Anders' arm, but the mage was nearly unconscious again, and there was no telltale signs of blue light. The spirit was either unresponsive or gone. Anders was pale, whiter than a sheet, and Fenris uncorked a bottle of elfroot potion and shoved it between Anders' lips. His fingers left bloody streaks on the mage's chin and cheek as he forced him to drink, holding his mouth shut and massaging his throat to get him to swallow. There was a faint stirring, and Fenris pressed two fingers to his neck, relieved to feel a slight pulse.

There was no water with which to clean the area, so he simply sat, cross-legged, holding Anders' arm in his lap, wiping away the blood so he could see his target as he threaded a needle, licking the end to get it through the hole. His fingers did not shake as he concentrated on his task. The method was crude, but with each puncture, each pull, the smooth edges pulled together. Before it closed entirely, he poured another vial of elfroot into the wound, watching it bubble as it cleansed. He had no idea if it would be enough to keep infection out, but it was better than leaving it untended. 

Anders' head lolled forward, and Fenris clenched his jaw. He kept the stitches tight and even, and tied it off the best he could. The tunic completely useless now, he used one bandage to wipe away the majority of the blood before using the bandages to wrap the wrist. There were no more elfroot potions, but lyrium. Fenris uncorked it, wincing at the stench that reminded him so much of his old life, his old pains, and yanked Anders' head back, fingers gripping the golden strands of hair, leaving them orange with blood. He poured the lyrium down his throat like he had the elfroot, then gathered the mage to his chest, muscles flexing as he picked him up.

With little effort, he carefully laid him down on one of the cots and stood back a moment, surveying the scene. He could get Hawke now. Anders would – might – survive. Fenris was no healer, he was simply decent with survival and first aid. Adrenaline now gone, he felt a little sick, wondering what in the name of the Maker had driven the mage to do something so stupid, so reckless.

_He wanted to die._

It was his intended goal. But the spirit inside him refused to allow it, begging him, _him_ of all people to help. And Fenris had. Would the mage appreciate it? Did he care even if he did? Hawke would. But would he tell Hawke? Their group of friends? They would look on Anders with pity. See him as weak. Fenris knew he was weak, but for so many reasons that weren't this one. And, looking at Anders now, he remembered.

_"Did you ever think about killing yourself?"_

_The question was so abrupt and intrusive, but Fenris wasn't surprised. The mage lacked tact. Tevinter would've eaten him alive. "I could ask you the same thing," he said, deflecting the question._

_But Anders pressed, and not in his usual self-righteous tone. He seemed almost earnest, definitely honest in his curiosity. "I'm serious. To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius... don't tell me you never thought about it."_

_"I did not." That wasn't a lie. Fenris was resigned to his life. There was nothing else for him but the life of a slave. Danarius was his end all, be all. But that wasn't what he told the mage, those thoughts too personal to express, and he didn't care to be scrutinized. "To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker," he said instead._

_"You… believe that?" Anders sounded genuinely bewildered._

_"I try to," Fenris said, frowning. This wasn't a conversation he cared to continue, not with the mage, not with anyone. But it was the first conversation they'd had in weeks that didn't seem to be hedging toward some type of fight or argument, and for Hawke's sake, he would try to keep the peace as long as the mage did. "Some things must be worse than slavery," he relented, though he couldn't think of any._

_Anders lowered his eyes and said, almost too quietly to hear, "Some things are worse than death."_

Fenris hadn't thought about that conversation for a long time after that evening as he lay in bed, contemplating. What could be worse than death? Pain he could handle. Enslavement, it was life. The annoyance of Hawke's other companions. The uncertainty of his future. Anders never elaborated, and Fenris wondered just what the mage considered worse than death. Now, looking at the man's unconscious form, streaked with blood, his tear-stained face, Fenris understood.

Failure. Guilt. Helplessness.

He always knew the mage was weak, but not for this. Anders had, in effect, simply realized his limitations. Fenris narrowed his eyes against the slow curl of guilt he felt in his stomach. No. He wouldn't take responsibility for this. This had been the mage's decision and his alone. And Anders wouldn't blame anyone else. He was, at least, capable of taking responsibility. He did so after he killed that girl, begging Aveline to let him attempt to make reparations, feeling the guilt of what he'd done upon his shoulders. Fenris felt a mild… compassion. Somewhat impressed. A magister would've hand-waved her death, blaming templars or the spirit or the weather. But Anders hadn't.

Unable to stay and look at him any longer, Fenris left the clinic, unbarring the door for now so he could return with a few things he would need.

-

Anders slowly opened his eyes, feeling dizzy and sick and weak. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or what had happened, thinking first that he was on the battlefield with Hawke and had been knocked out. It wouldn't be the first time. The second thought was that Justice took over and he was experiencing another blank in his memory. There was no heavy pain in his chest though, no stirring of irritation. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. 

"Drink."

He recognized the voice, and was too weak to protest as a cup was pressed to his lips, another hand slipping under his head to tilt it up. He drank slowly at first, then like a man dying as he downed the cool, clean water, lifting his hand to try to touch the cup. He couldn't, and felt his fingers thump against the canvas of a cot. He was in his clinic, and as Fenris lay his head back down, he looked over. A fire was lit, a pot hanging over it. Fenris turned his back on him, stirring whatever was inside it. It smelled delicious, and Anders' stomach twisted and growled.

"It will be ready momentarily," Fenris said.

Anders looked down, feeling the cloth wrapped around his wrist, and his memories came back not like a tidal wave, but like a hurricane. Guilt and frustration and sorrow all swirling together in a maelstrom of rage.

"Why?!" he cried, trying to sit up.

Fenris whirled on him, pressing one strong hand against his bare chest, pinning him to the cot. Anders saw his lip curl into a disgusted sneer and found he couldn't hold his gaze. The anger ebbed from him slowly and his chest hitched as he let out a dry sob.

"Why?" he asked again, not looking at him.

Fenris grunted and turned back to the soup. "Hawke would've been disappointed," he said guardedly, as if he practiced the line.

"You ought not to have bothered," Anders said, lifting his arm to look at his bandaged wrist. His hair felt damp and he ran the fingers of his uninjured hand through his locks. "Why is my hair wet?"

"I had to wash you off. There was a lot of blood. Still is," Fenris said, gesturing to a corner of the clinic.

Anders looked over, eyes widening as he saw the spatter, a crescent shape of crimson soaked stone. His tunic lay, saturated with dark red. "Maker…"

"I'm not sure He had much to do with it," Fenris intoned. "More your pet spirit."

Anders clutched his chest, feeling his heartbeat, but the weight on his soul was somewhat lessened. "I can't… feel him."

Fenris turned, not saying anything, and slid an arm under Anders' shoulders to help him sit up slowly. Dizzy, Anders clutched at Fenris's shoulder, then let go quickly. A bowl of soup was pressed into his hands and he balanced it on his knees, cupping it with his injured arm while he took the proffered spoon.

"Why did you save my life?"

Fenris grunted again. "I told you."

"Because of Hawke. But Hawke wasn't here. You could've let me die."

"Could I have?" Fenris asked, taking the pot from the fire. He poured a glass from a green bottle – wine, Anders realized – and took a sip. "Would you have, had our positions been reversed?"

Anders frowned at the soup and spooned a bit of it. It smelled of vegetables and chicken, and when he sipped, it tasted better than anything he'd had. "No. I don't think so." He wanted to think he would've done the same. "But still."

Fenris sighed. "Some things might be worse than death," he said.

Anders looked up at him, exhausted and pale and dizzy.

"But you didn't do it because you thought you deserved it, did you?" Fenris asked. "You did it to escape the guilt."

"I…" He wanted to be angry at Fenris, to shout at him. But the elf was right, at least on some level. Even now he felt the guilt pressing down on him, a sick weight in his stomach. "I killed a girl."

"You did," Fenris stated. "So have I. And if you think yourself so much better than she, that you deserve the peace in death that she's found at the Maker's side, then by all means," he said, and withdrew a dagger, offering him the handle.

Anders looked at it for a moment, contemplating. Death was no mercy. What he did to that girl couldn't be forgiven. But if there was a Maker, she was by His side. She would no longer face the fear and condemnation that mages felt. It was no consolation, didn't make him feel better. But Fenris was right, and he hated him even more for it. He deserved to live with the guilt, not be relieved from it. Fenris snorted and put the dagger away.

"Your heart stopped briefly."

Anders looked up at him. Fenris was staring down, arms crossed, frowning.

"Momentarily, before I managed to get a healing potion down your throat. You died."

Anders' brows knitted. "I died."

"For a few seconds only, otherwise you may have suffered brain damage." Fenris's lip curled as if he wanted to make a joke, but he held his tongue. "You say you can longer feel your pet spirit."

Anders looked down again. "It's difficult to tell, but… I think so."

"There's likely no way to tell for sure, but he may have gone. Eat."

Anders ate slowly while Fenris drank. Justice. Gone. It was jarring to think about. Though they were often at odds even if the end goal was the same, Justice had become more or less another limb. And he was gone now. Or perhaps just withdrawn. But he couldn't feel him, and wondered if he ever would again.

He finished his soup and Fenris took the bowl and spoon before shoving a roll of bread into his hands. Anders ate quietly, not knowing why Fenris was here, taking care of him. He could've left him after stitching his arm.

"Why did you come back?"

Fenris sneered and refilled his wine glass. "In case you were foolish enough to do it again."

Anders sighed heavily and nibbled at the roll. What would he do now? Continue? Could he?

"I will," Fenris said haltingly. "Remain here tonight. If you wish. But I will leave in the morning and you will clean that," he said, gesturing with the wine bottle toward the blood stain. "You'll not leave me to explain this to Hawke."

Anders nodded slowly. He supposed he owed that to him. "Fenris…"

"Don't."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

Fenris scoffed. "Thanking me. Don't. I may not agree with the majority of what comes out of your mouth, mage, but that does not mean I'd wish to see you dead. I said I would watch you, and I have. You are…" He hummed a moment, searching for the words. "Unlike Danarius."

Anders frowned. It wasn't a compliment, not really. But likely the closest he'd get from Fenris. "Not all mages-"

Fenris held up a hand. "Don't."

Normally Anders would argue, they would fight, and it would end up in a shouting match. But he didn't, not having the energy. He finished the roll and lay back down on the cot, accepting the blanket that Fenris offered.

"You should take another lyrium potion in the morning," Fenris said, and climbed onto another cot, cradling the wine bottle. "No doubt you can heal your arm more satisfactorily once you've slept properly." He removed a book from a pile of supplies he'd brought down and let it fall open in his lap, leaning over to squint at the words.

"And you'll stay?" Anders asked.

Fenris's shoulders tightened and he took a swig from the bottle. Anders didn't press the issue. He turned over, away from him, and tugged the blanket up over his shoulder, cradling his bandaged wrist and closed his eyes. He would live with the guilt hanging heavily inside him, and he would keep it as a reminder. He needed to get stronger, to be more capable in order to push forward with his cause. If Justice was truly gone, it didn't mean anything. He would do it alone if he had to.

Perhaps… if he could convince Fenris that mages weren't evil, didn't deserve to be locked up, didn't deserve to… to die… He looked at his bandaged wrist. Maybe, just maybe he could still do this.

That thought in mind, he allowed his exhaustion to claim him, and fell into a sound sleep.


End file.
